


grey days

by pyrrhlc



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Churches & Cathedrals, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Scenery Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-08 12:30:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16429445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyrrhlc/pseuds/pyrrhlc
Summary: Grantaire doesn’t go to the Sainte-Clotilde to pray. But he likes the silence, even so.





	grey days

**Author's Note:**

  * For [talefeathers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/talefeathers/gifts).



> Happy (belated) birthday to the lovely Julia! I hope you like this.

Grantaire doesn’t go to the Sainte-Clotilde to pray. He hasn’t for years. He isn’t that kind of person anymore.

It’s not that he doesn’t believe in God – he doesn’t believe in anything. He isn’t particular about deities, or rituals, or the foods he eats, both alone and in groups. He doesn’t have the time for that kind of devotion. Though, if he did, he might turn to the Greek pantheon for support. Aphrodite would spurn him. Dionysus might just welcome him with open arms. He’s neither repulsed nor relieved by the prospect of it, to have someone watching over him. He’d mess it up anyway. He always messes up.

No, he’s not here to pray. He’s a recovering alcoholic with nothing else to lose. If God wanted his belief, he should have tested him later, not before.

He leans into the rough wooden back of the chair behind him. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t sigh. The vaulted ceiling above him is too high and grand for that. He doesn’t want the dissatisfaction within him to creep any further than is already necessary. Sounds echo in this place. Like the dead, they most often speak when they’re unbidden. It’s enough for Grantaire just to keep them inside of him. One always breathes silently in a cathedral. One always breathes silently in crowded spaces, if they wish to remain unnoticed. Grantaire has no desire to be noticed today.

The Sainte-Clotilde is not particularly busy today, which surprises him. He’s not so early; sunlight streams from the stained-glass windows ahead of him, falling softly onto the shining tiles beneath. He sits at the back on this occasion, which suits Grantaire just fine. Today is not a day for participating, nor being noticed, nor any of the things everyone else around him seems to do so well. He turns his head for a moment, studying the painted wall, faded but vibrantly alive, then looks back again at the hands folded loosely in his lap. He wants to pray. He wishes he could. But what he wants from the one or many gods today just isn’t simple enough for that. A subtle melancholy has stolen over him, one that won’t go away. Can’t go away, for all it’s worth. Grantaire is the most unholy thing in this church right now. He wants it to hurt him, this fact, but it doesn’t. He’s numb to that bit of insight as well. Go figure.

He studies the sunlight again, the fragility of those rose-coloured glass windows. He looks at the floor. He looks at his hands. The sunlight is stretching for him, even at the back. Grantaire leans away from it on instinct.

A few feet away (though it seems like much further) several tourists mutter amongst themselves, alternating between sacred whispers and flashing pictures. Pictures aren’t allowed here, but Grantaire doesn’t correct them. It’s the crudest way to capture individual awe, but he doesn’t mention that either. Neither pictures nor paintings can do it justice. He’s learnt both the hard way, in his time; Grantaire isn’t about to try and capture this place in acrylic again. Some things are best recalled only through memory.

There’s a skitter of steps at the cathedral entrance; Grantaire turns his head slightly to see a young boy and his parents, lingering on the threshold, hesitating at those cold stone steps. Well, the parents are hesitating. Trying to take everything in, from the first moment to the last. The boy skids straight in, racing pell-mell up the steps – then stops, his breath torn from him as his head tilts back, captured by the absolute majesty of those sky-high ceilings, the faint embellishments on the wood. Footsteps carry on forever. Even without believing in the holiness of the place, the effects are still felt. Grantaire watches as a multitude of emotions pass across the boy’s face, too full for his small frame to capture or understand. Miracles can – and have – happened here. This scene before him is just one more.

The expression flickers; the awe subtly drains away. Slightly underwhelmed now, the boy moves back over to his parents, into the waiting crook of his mother’s arm. Too late, Grantaire realises he is staring; he turns back around, his face burning under his own scrutiny.

There is a sacredness to this place. Grantaire is not so cynical that he refuses to hear it. But he can’t believe in it. It is more than a ruptured faith. He is divided in self.

He doesn’t hear the other man sit down next to him, and starts when he speaks.

“You come here a lot.” the man comments. Grantaire casts a glance at him, then stands up without really thinking about it. He’s not here for this. He’s not here to be noticed.

The man looking at him, however, seems determined not to be avoided. He reaches out to grab hold of Grantaire by the arm, and Grantaire is slightly ashamed to find he flinches badly at the touch. It’s been a long time since he was held by another person, he realises with a start. Longer than it ought to be. He wonders if the other man sees it in his eyes.

“Please,” the man says, softly, respecting the unwritten rules of this carnivorous space. His eyes are bright blue. “Don’t go.”

Grantaire obeys, sinking back down into his chair. The grip on his arm slackens and relents. They are two strangers sat silently side-by-side in the Sainte-Clotilde cathedral; Grantaire doesn’t know what the hell to do about it. He lets his mouth do the talking, unaccompanied by his brain. “I haven’t seen you here before.”

The man ducks down his head. He has long hair, gold and red at the same time, and it stands in sharp contrast with the rest of his face; russet-coloured skin, heavy eyebrows, furious eyes. For the first time in months, Grantaire’s fingers itch with the urge to paint something. To paint this man, to capture his expression. A Promethean task, he knows, but that doesn’t stop him from thinking it, over and over, trapped in a loop. All of the cathedral’s light is drawn towards them, and he knows why, now.

The man is embarrassed, he realises. Half a second later, he says:

“My friend works here. He cleans up the cathedral after dark. I help him sometimes.” He’s wearing a shirt, sweater and jacket; Grantaire watches as he pulls at an invisible piece of lint. “You’re always the last one to leave. I thought I should talk to you.”

“Why?”

“You know how to appreciate this building. But I can tell you don’t believe in any of it.” His lips are curved; Grantaire thinks he might be smiling, albeit in a sad, lost kind of way. It’s hard to tell if this is because of himself or Grantaire’s own melancholy. He holds out his hand anyway. “My name is Enjolras.”

“Grantaire.”

“Could we walk?” Enjolras asks, still smiling, and Grantaire’s stomach twists in a way he has not experienced in a very long time. He stands up, watching the fierce glitter of Enjolras’ eyes, the way in which they widen subtly as Grantaire picks up his jacket and folds it over one arm. He has been watched for a while now, but not by the gods. And someone ought to assure Enjolras that Grantaire is more than a ghost, anyway.

For that’s surely what he thinks of him, sitting here day after day in silence, with nothing better to do. Grantaire’s hands are idle; he does not pray. He must at least look haunted, contemplating the world alone. He could do with a coffee, with mundane conversation. He could do with so much.

“Sure,” he says to Enjolras, the hint of a smile flitting across his lips. He puts a hand to it and holds it close, remembering, then offers that same hand to Enjolras. He takes it.

Grantaire thanks the building, rather than what inhabits it. It seems like the simpler choice, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to leave a comment and/or some kudos! Comments make my day.


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